Why I Talk to My Furniture (And Honestly Don’t See the Problem)

Sometimes, I feel like no one understands me quite like my kitchen stool. We’ve been through a lot together: a minor identity crisis at 39, a diet that consisted mostly of crackers, and that one unfortunate attempt at making borscht without beets or a recipe. Furniture doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask you to return its books, and it never judges you for rewatching Twin Peaks for the seventh time.

I know how this sounds — ridiculous, maybe. But what if ridiculousness is the last honest thing we have? In a world where everything has to be useful, talking to my furniture is my form of beautiful uselessness. I name objects, and each of them becomes a character in my private mythology. For instance, the armchair in the living room is called Arkady. He’s stubborn but dependable.

My friends say it's eccentric. Maybe it is. But let’s be real — we live in a world where people tell their secrets to smart speakers. How am I any different? At least I’m honest about it: my furniture is my crew. When I feel anxious, I sit next to my dresser (his name is Boris) and tell him how my day went.

Maybe this is just how I stay connected — to the world, or maybe to myself. Because when that stool answers me — even if it’s only in my head — it means my imagination is still alive. And imagination is the last shield against loneliness, banality, and boredom.